


An Experiment in Ethanol

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, drunk!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The text message made him suspicious immediately. It was a polite request, included the word "please" and was not signed. In short: It was everything Sherlock Holmes would never ever write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Experiment in Ethanol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thescreechowl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thescreechowl).



> This story is the result of a lost bet. TheScreechowl and I bet on the Oscars - she won, so I wrote this story for her. Obviously the whole thing is therefore dedicated to her. You rock!

Sherlock had been out on some mysterious errant for hours when John's phone beeped, alerting him to a new text message. He briefly contemplated whether to get up from his comfortable position in his chair but the usual worry about his mad flatmate made him sigh and give in almost at once. He really needed to work on his strength of will where Sherlock was concerned.

John grabbed his phone from where he had left it on the kitchen table. One new text message, sent by Sherlock.

_"John would you please come and pick me up at The World's End?"_

The text message made him suspicious immediately. It was a polite request, included the word "please" and was not signed. In short: It was everything Sherlock Holmes would never _ever_ write.

He texted back while already moving to get his jacket.

_"Are you alright?"_

No reply came forth. Not as he left the flat, not when he hailed a cab, not during the agonisingly long ride to the pub where Sherlock was apparently requiring his presence.

John tried not to freak out as he anxiously watched London pass outside the cab's window, his leg bouncing in a jittery rhythm. Sherlock was alright. He had to be. He was probably just trying to confuse him, make him curious by altering his usual texting style to see if John would react.

_'It could be a trap'_ the Captain part of his brain whispered, sending a rush of adrenalin sizzling through his veins, thoughts of criminals and guns and Sherlock in danger clouding his mind.

The cab ride seemed to take twice as long as it usually did, regardless of the fact that there was relatively little traffic at this time of the night. If he hadn't stayed up to wait for Sherlock to come home, John would have gone to bed hours ago.

He checked his phone again, hoping he had somehow missed the chime of a new text message. Still nothing.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he cursed, trying to decide if sending another text would be any good. If Sherlock was indeed in danger, any additional messages might only betray that help was under way. If Sherlock was fine and just messing with him, he was unlikely to reply as well but would probably berate John for trying to coddle him.

John huffed, disliking either possibility. At least he had come prepared - his gun was tucked securely into his jeans, a comforting pressure against the small of his back. He had long since learned that carrying a gun when leaving the flat had its advantages in any kind of situation. You could use it to shoot criminals and also to murder your mad wanker of a flatmate if he was being especially obnoxious. John thought that he had so far showed admirable restraint when it came to option two.

Finally, just as he was starting to give serious consideration to the idea of getting out and running the rest of the way, the cab pulled to a stop in front of the pub. John all but threw money at the driver, barely making sure he paid the right amount, then hurled himself out onto the pavement and hastened into the pub, ready for anything.

Or so he thought.

******

As it turned out, there was exactly one situation he had not been prepared for at all and that was to find Sherlock Holmes, brilliant consulting detective and massive pain in the ass, slouched on a stool at the bar, clutching an empty glass that might at some time have contained an alcoholic beverage for dear life, and being accosted by a woman who was of the monetary persuasion. As in: if you had enough money, she was prepared to do anything to ensure you had a good time.

With his custom-made shoes and finely-tailored clothes, Sherlock definitely looked like someone who had enough money but he could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as someone currently having a good time.

"Sherlock?," John addressed him, gently gripping his shoulder and flinching when Sherlock whirled around a bit too forcefully.

His iridescent eyes, usually so sharp and piercing, blearily focused on John's face. "Shaan?"

John opened his mouth to reply when the barkeeper tapped his arm. "Are you the guy I texted?"

"You texted me?"

The portly man nodded. "Aye. Took pity on him when he couldn't get a straight word typed out on his phone. He said to text ya, so I did. He's yours, then?"

He almost denied it, but then figured that in a way Sherlock was his. Best friend, flatmate, partner in crime-solving... whatever applied. Also, he realised he still had his hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"You could've told me I was just wastin' me time on you!," the woman hanging on to Sherlock's other arm huffed, finally letting go of him and stepping back. "An' here I thought I'd finally found someone gorgeous and straight. Hard to come by in this city. Bloody hell."

Heels clicking loudly and hips swaying in indignation, she walked away without a backwards glance, muttering to herself about "them bloody fags ruinin' business". John dismissed her with a roll of his eyes and turned back to Sherlock.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Thought that wash ... was ... ovi... obvo... clear," Sherlock slurred, turning back to the bar and almost falling off of his seat in the process.

John strengthened his grip on his shoulder. "Yes, I can see that you're getting smashed. I'd like to know why, though."

Sherlock made an outrageously swooping gesture with his arm, still clutching the empty glass, and John had to duck to not get hit in the face. "Jeez, maybe I'd best take you home and you can tell me all about that brilliant idea of yours tomorrow. I might even let you have an Advil or two if you're nice."

Bleary eyes zeroed in on his face once more and John nodded to himself. "Yep. Definitely getting you home now. Come on, up you get." He turned to the barkeeper. "How much does he owe you?"

In the end, it was a good thing Sherlock always kept a bunch of money on him in case he needed to activate his Homeless Network because John definitely wouldn't have been able to cover the bill.

"You have expensive tastes," he grumbled, tucking Sherlock's wallet back into the detective's pocket and dragging him upright. "Come along then."

Sherlock didn't protest as John half led and half dragged him out of the pub and to the curb. "Can you try and stay upright long enough for me to hail a cab?," he asked. Perhaps that hope was a bit optimistic of him - no cabbie liked having a drunk passenger - but there was no way they were going to make it back to Baker Street on foot.

******

They spent a miserable fifteen minutes out on the pavement as John tried to simultaneously flag down a cab and keep Sherlock upright. The detective was leaning heavily against him, swaying where he stood. Every now and then, he would squint at John or one of the people passing them and mutter unintelligible words that may or may not be deductions.

Finally, as John was starting to get tired and just as a light rain started falling, a very familiar black car came around the corner and pulled up at the curb right where they stood. The door was pushed open from the inside and John hastened to grab it with a muttered "Oh thank heaven". Anthea glowered at him as he peered inside, waving at her.

"Come on, Sherlock, get in there," he ordered, grabbing the detective by the arm and carefully helping him into the car.

In the end, Sherlock fell more onto the backseat than to actually sit down, causing Anthea to budge up until she was pressed against the other door, her glare intensifying as she continued tapping away on her blackberry. John shoved Sherlock's legs aside and got in as well, closing the door behind him. He doubted he had ever seen Anthea pissed off for any reason - or staring at anything but her phone.

Maybe it was some kind of addiction or something.

"Lovely evening for a ride, isn't it?," he said, giving her his most charming smile just because he could.

Anthea turned her head, glanced at him, then at Sherlock half sprawled on the seat between them, and raised one eyebrow. "Here," she said, reaching for a bucket on the floor of the car and handing it to Sherlock, who stared at it with the puzzled expression of someone who had been given an unsolvable mystery.

"'s a hat," he finally concluded. "Shtrange. You'd looove it, Shaan."

And he attempted to hand the bucket to John.

"Keep it, you wanker," John told him, laughing despite himself. "In case you get sick."

"Why'd I get shick?," Sherlock asked indignantly. "I can ... can hold me ... ma lick-thing."

John made an estimated guess. "Your liquor?"

"Yeah, that."

He snorted. "You really really can't."

Sherlock didn't protest but thankfully he also didn't throw up, which was more than John could have hoped for. When he turned to give his flatmate a quizzical look, he realised he had fallen asleep, folded up on his side, his feet dangling off the seat, arms wrapped around the bucket like a bizarre teddy bear. He looked so adorable it made John's heart give a strange little jolt.

******

They arrived at Baker Street approximately five minutes later. John had to admit that it really was a rather short ride when one did not have at least a litre of adrenaline coursing through one's bloodstream while entertaining panicked thoughts about all the possible dangerous situations one was just about to dive into head-first.

"Tell Mycroft thank you," he told Anthea as he got out of the car in front of number 221.

He bent over Sherlock and nudged his shoulder. "Wakey-wakey."

No response. Of course not. He sighed and shoved Sherlock harder. "Wake up you madman, we're home. Time for you to go to bed. For both of us, in fact. Up you get."

Sherlock grumbled into the collar of his coat but refused to open his eyes. There really was nothing for it. John had to do it. He took a moment to collect himself, then barked "Sherlock Holmes, you will get up and exit this car immediately or there will be severe consequences!" in his best I-am-Captain-John-Watson-don't-mess-with-me voice.

Anthea flinched and looked at him in astonishment and Sherlock bolted upright as if shocked with a cattle prod. "'m awake, no reas'n to shout like that."

John shrugged. "Get out of the car - no, leave the bucket, we've got one of our own. Seriously, how many drinks did you knock back at that pub?"

"Dunno," Sherlock muttered, heaving himself out of the car and clinging to the door as his entire body tipped to the side. John rushed to steady him, slinging an arm around his waist. "Ten three?"

"That's not even a number," John informed him, shaking his head. "Here, wrap one arm around my shoulders - no, the other one, you're not a damn contortionist."

It took a while to sort out all of Sherlock's long limbs - long enough for John to start doubting if the detective really only had two arms and legs. Who knew what else his coat was hiding. ' _Don't be stupid, you've seen him without that coat. You've even seen him with nothing but a sheet on - in Buckingham Palace, no less!_ ' the rational part of his brain reminded him.

Once they had actually made it to the front door, John propped Sherlock against the door frame, holding him up with one arm while digging his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door with the other. Finally, the lock clicked and he turned to Sherlock to get him inside, only to find that the detective was not paying attention to what was going on around him. Instead, he appeared to be completely fascinated by John's left hand, which was pressed against his chest to hold him upright, fingers tangled in the dark wool of his coat.

Sherlock stared down at it as if he had encountered a strange and so far undiscovered species, tilting his head this way and that and having to refocus his gaze every time he did so.

"H.M.H.M.H.," he finally said. "Hurt me heal me hands."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock raised his gaze to stare at him, looking a bit drowsy. "Soulsher," he slurred, pointing at John. "Hurts."

John nodded, pretending to understand what his very drunk flatmate was prattling on about.

Said flatmate smiled, satisfied. "Doctor," he continued, still pointing at John. "Heals."

"Right," John agreed. "Well done. Brilliant deduction. Now will you please come inside?"

He glanced over his shoulder, noticing that the car was still idling at the curb, no doubt to make sure that he and Sherlock actually made it safely inside before leaving them alone. He sighed and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist again. "Come on, slowly. One step at a time. No, the other direction, Sherlock. We just came from here, we want to go in there. That's where your bed is."

He somehow managed to steer Sherlock into the entrance hall far enough to close the front door behind them, gently shoving it shut with his foot - he really didn't have a hand free at the moment. Outside, he could hear the engine purr as Mycroft's car took off.

Sherlock giggled, the sound oddly loud in the hallway. "Where my bed issss," he repeated, grinning in a way that John would have to describe as slightly deranged if anyone were to ask him.

"Exactly. That's where I'm taking you. Your bed," he confirmed. "Come on, it's not far to the stairs."

Sherlock allowed him to steer - or rather: drag - him down the hall and to the foot of the stairs where they paused for a moment so John could take a breath and determine how best to get him up there. The simplest solution would probably be to just stay by his side, allowing Sherlock to grip the rail and keep his arm around him. They'd have to switch sides but it should be doable.

"Alright then," he muttered, stepping on the first step to get to Sherlock's other side and gently steering him towards the rail. "There, hold on to that, keep your other arm around me and let's take it slowly. One stair at a time."

Sherlock nodded, looking very focused as they manoeuvred the stairs together, slowly making their way up. Once they got going, it was surprisingly easy, though John occasionally had to remind his best friend to hold on to the rail instead of flailing his arm around like a drunk sailor, nearly causing both of them to topple back down the way they had come.

Finally, they made it to the top and John decided not to stop for shoes and coats and stuff until they had reached their destination, which just so happened to be Sherlock's bedroom. Once he got him in there, he could help him out of his coat and shoes and then just let him sleep it off. That, at least, was the plan. Clear and simple. Straightforward. Just like John himself, basically.

It was not, however, like Sherlock.

******

They made it all the way to the bedroom without incident, if you were willing to ignore the dangerously close encounter with the kitchen table, rattling all the fragile glassware Sherlock was so proud of and almost causing his beloved microscope to crash to the floor.

John barely managed to catch it with his right hand, then continued to drag Sherlock into the hall and past the bathroom door towards his bedroom.

"There we are," he said, shoving the door open with his foot and turning to face Sherlock so he could help him take off his coat.

Sherlock blinked in confusion as he looked around the room, apparently not quite sure how he had gotten there. "This's ma room."

"Well spotted," John said, glad to see that Sherlock hadn't bothered with buttoning his coat. He unwound the scarf from his neck, threw it over the chair by the closet and raised his arms to Sherlock's lapels so he could help him out of his coat.

The detective caught his hands in a surprisingly strong grip and stared down at him, a strange look in his eyes. Then a smile spread on his face and John realised the look was mostly amusement. "We're in ma room, Jawn."

Well, at least they were getting closer to his actual name. John decided to take that as a good sign. "Indeed we are," he confirmed. "I'm bringing you to bed, remember? God, you're smashed."

Sherlock looked at him with hooded eyes. "Are you takin' advin... adver... advantesh of me?"

"Advantage? No. Of course not. Let go of my hands for a second so I can get that coat off, will you?"

Sherlock did as he was told but kept his eyes fixed on John as he took the coat and threw it in the general direction of the chair as well.

"'cause you could." The words were low, barely audible as John left him leaning against the wall while he pulled back the covers.

"What?"

"You could," Sherlock repeated, suddenly sounding dead serious. "Take advantesh. Of me." Pause. "If you want."

John turned to stare at him, incredulous. His flatmate was staring back at him, slouched against the wall and apparently supremely unconcerned with this conversation - something John could not claim about himself.

The detective wasn't done talking, however.

"I want you to," he continued, frowning. "I think." Another pause. "To take advantesh, I mean."

John froze halfway between the bed and Sherlock. Oh no. No no no no, this was not happening right now. In fact, this was not happening at all. The alcoholic fumes Sherlock was breathing at him had gone to his head, muddling his perception. That was it. Sherlock had not just told him he wanted to sleep with him. Definitely not.

The argument sounded flimsy even in his own head.

And Sherlock was still leaning against the wall where John had left him, slowly tilting to the left.

John rushed forward and grabbed his upper arms, pulling him back into an upright position before he could fall. "You're drunk."

"Yep." His lips made a popping sound at the 'p'. Sherlock liked it so much he repeated it half a dozen times. John rolled his eyes. Clearly he couldn't take anything Sherlock said or did seriously right now. Not even if he secretly wanted to. _Especially_ not then.

"Alright, can you sit on your bed? I don't think you can take your shoes off on your own."

He pulled his best friend away from the wall and carefully manoeuvred him the couple of steps towards his bed, pushing him down until he sat on the edge of the mattress. John crouched down in front of him and got to work on Sherlock's shoes. He had only managed to pull off one when Sherlock reached out and combed his fingers through John's hair.

When he looked up, he saw guileless eyes staring back at him. They were more on the green side of the colour spectrum at the moment - fascinating. Sherlock smiled, a slow smile, as if wanting to enjoy the sensation of drawing the corners of his mouth upwards.

"Do you know... know your hair's got... got... colours... uh." He blinked, trying to focus. "What wash I say'n?"

"Something about my hair and colours," John humoured him.

"Right." Sherlock nodded, straightening his spine as if preparing to give a speech in front of a huge audience. "Lots oof... offfffff... colours. In your air. Hair. 's nice."

John snorted. "I'm going prematurely grey thanks to all the stress you keep putting me through."

His flatmate giggled. "Tha's funny." He got serious a moment later. "Grey," he said. "An' brawn... broun. And gold 'n ... uh... woman's name."

"Huh?"

Sherlock gestured wildly with his right hand as John finally pulled off his other shoe. "Woman's name. Used in flims... films for pristo... prostu ... thing."

"I have no idea what on earth you are talking about," John informed him, wondering if maybe he should record this whole conversation on his phone to preserve it for generations to come - and for Lestrade, who would have the time of his life listening to it.

Sherlock shrugged, dropping the topic for the time being and trying to get back to the point he had been about to make. "Lots of colours. 's nice."

"So you said. Uh, thank you. I guess."

The detective's hand moved from the top of his head to his cheek. John tried to suppress the shiver racing down his back at the gentle touch. "Sherlock, what-?"

But his friend didn't appear to hear him, having tilted his face up so he could stare at him.

"Beau... beauful... where's the i? Oh, beauiful. Right. You've got beauiful eyes, Jawn."

John gulped, trying desperately to remind himself that Sherlock was definitely in no way responsible for what he was saying. Not even remotely. Maybe someone had spiked one of his drinks with something. The prostitute seemed like a good suspect.

"Sush beauiful eyes," Sherlock confirmed his previous statement, still missing a 't' in his attempt to speak clearly. "Veeeerry blue."

It was around that time that John realised that Sherlock's own eyes had grown darker, pupils dilating.

_Uh-oh._

John sighed and had to use all his will-force to get up and back away under the guise of putting Sherlock's shoes somewhere he wouldn't fall over them if he decided to get up in a couple of hours. The detective's hand fell limply to his lap and John tried very hard not to register the hurt expression on his friend's face.

' _He's not thinking clearly_ ' he reminded himself sternly, stalling for additional time by taking off his own jacket and boots. It was getting bloody warm in here.

He drew a deep breath, steeling himself, then turned around to make sure Sherlock was alright and had everything he needed.

Except apparently the man in question had decided that he was decidedly too hot and had therefore started to unbutton his shirt. How he managed that in his state was a mystery, but by the time John was facing him again, his shirt was already gaping half open, exposing the firm muscles of his chest that always threatened to pop the buttons if he breathed in too deeply.

John temporarily lost his train of thought - just long enough for Sherlock to work open another button.

"Er... alright," John stammered, thinking that this was definitely not alright but rather bordering on bloody unfair. "So I'm guessing you're not going to sleep with your trousers on, either?"

Sherlock paused in his work and looked up at him, that one errant curl falling across his forehead and making John's fingers itch with the need to brush it back. "Yesssss."

Of course not. John sighed, watching as Sherlock fumbled with the last remaining button.

"Oh, for god's sake!" He stepped closer and bent down, battling Sherlock's hands away and undoing the button for him, trying very hard not to touch his chest. That didn't stop him from feeling the heat radiating off of Sherlock's body, though. Bloody hell, the man was like a furnace!

Doctorly instincts kicking in, John pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, trying to determine if he was running a fever. He felt normal, though, so John took the chance to brush that damned curl away and then helped him shrug off his shirt.

As soon as his arms were free, Sherlock's hands reached for John's waist, the world toppled and a moment later he found himself lying on the bed, a drunk consulting detective hovering above him.

'As situations go, this one isn't too far from ideal' John thought dazedly, staring up into that beautiful, inquisitive face he knew so well.

It took a moment or two for their changed positions to register and then John bolted upright, narrowly avoiding hitting Sherlock's chin with his head.

"You're drunk, Sherlock. So why don't you take off your trousers and lie down and-"

"So you are taking advantesh of me, Jawn." Sherlock looked unbearably smug. "I like it. 's good."

His hands moved to his trousers and John would later swear that he had never seen a drunk person undo their button and zipper faster than Sherlock did in this moment. John was trying very hard not to look too closely for fear that his self-control might crumble to dust. No matter what Sherlock claimed to want, he was drunk out of his mind for as-of-yet-unknown reasons and John was not going to take advantage of that situation. He wanted to still be able to look himself in the face in the mirror in the future.

The desire to remain a person he himself could respect was currently being undermined by Sherlock Holmes taking off his trousers while lying half-naked on his bed.

John closed his eyes, sent a prayer for strength to the heavens and any all-knowing entity nearby that didn't go by the name of Mycroft Holmes, and tried to get Sherlock to move so he could spread his covers over him in the insane hope that the mere sensation of being tucked in would actually make him go to sleep.

It didn't, of course. In fact, John didn't even get close to accomplishing his goal because somewhere in between him approaching the bed and reaching for the sheets, Sherlock turned into an octopus of some sort. In short, John ended up exactly where he had been before - lying on the bed with Sherlock hovering above him. Decidedly where he should _not_ be in this exact moment.

It was difficult to remember that, however, with Sherlock's hands skating across his chest and a warm mouth pressed to his neck. John made a noise that sounded embarrassingly much like: "Gnnnuh."

Sherlock hummed, the grip of his thighs tightening around John's hips. Oh god. _Oh god oh god oh god._

"Sherlock," he muttered, mind spinning and rational thought spiralling away from him. "This isn't right. We need to stop."

All he got in response was a sound of protest followed by Sherlock's tongue tracing a wet path from his throat to his jaw. John moaned despite himself, hands flailing as he tried to grapple for purchase, for anything to hold on to. Sherlock's arms. Yes, that was a good place. Grab his upper arms, then... let him suck at adam's apple... oh Jesus ... no wait, that was _not_ what he was supposed to do!

Uh... grab upper arms, check.

Then ... what came then?

John tried to remember the basic concept of breathing as soft lips moved along his jaw. He remembered how that worked just in time for Sherlock's mouth to descend upon his and his brain went temporarily offline. For exactly as long as it took the detective to push his tongue into John's mouth with a happy little moan.

It was the lingering taste of alcohol coating that tongue that finally jolted John into action, too many memories of watching Harry clutching the toilet as she threw up finally giving him the strength to move his grip to Sherlock's shoulders and shove him off.

Sherlock, for all his sudden and rather surprising awakening of lust, was utterly unable to prevent John from forcibly removing him from his person and depositing him on the mattress beside him. There was a moment of confusion as the detective unexpectedly found himself staring at the ceiling, bereft of the warm and happy place he had just been in.

He managed to reach out and hold on to John's forearm with surprising strength as John finally managed to pull the covers over him. "Jawn?" He sounded both confused and anxious, a sudden change in mood that John hadn't anticipated.

"I'm right here," he assured him, patting his shoulder through the covers. "It's alright."

Sherlock stared at him, looking lost, his eyes big and pleading. "Shtay wi' me?"

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But the sudden outburst of desire seemed to have evaporated. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. Knowing Sherlock, John suspected that said switch was usually set to "off" and had experienced a quite unexpected change in position tonight thanks to large amounts of unspecified alcohol.

John knew he should let Sherlock sleep, provide him with a bucket and a glass of water and maybe some painkillers for his hangover in the morning and just leave him here to sleep it off. But he couldn't.

And it wasn't just because Sherlock was still clinging to his arm.

"Fine," he relented. "You stay where you are, under the covers, and I'll lie here, on top of them, and no funny business. Got it?"

The detective nodded, looking like an oversized child as he stared at John with guileless eyes.

John tried very hard not to remember what it had felt like to have every inch of that oversized child pressed against him. He climbed back onto the bed and stretched out on his back, turning his head so he could look at Sherlock. He had barely settled into his position when Sherlock shuffled closer, a bit awkwardly due to the covers separating them, but finally he was pressed as close to John's side as possible, his nose buried in the soft fabric of John's jumper that covered his right shoulder.

"You are going to be so embarrassed about all of this tomorrow," John said, grinning. "I bet I'll be able to get you to actually clean out the fridge if I promise to never bring tonight up ever again in return."

There was no answer and when he glanced down he realised that Sherlock had fallen asleep, one hand clutching John's arm and his face all but hidden in his jumper. In one word, he looked utterly adorable.

John smiled, his heart constricting and sending a shock of warmth through his body.

There he was, lying in Sherlock's bed after the former had almost succeeded in seducing him, and all he could think was that he bloody loved this insane flatmate of his.

His smile froze and his eyes widened with incredulity as he became aware of what he had just thought. But of course it was too late to unthink it. You couldn't kill an idea, as Sherlock so often said. And damn if this one wasn't true. The warmth seemed to seep out of him as dread and devastation set in.

If the stars were in John's favour, Sherlock wasn't going to remember any of this tomorrow. And if he did, he would most likely brush it off as a mistake or drunkenness or an experiment or something equally plausible and John found he had no idea how he was going to deal with any of that. The very thought almost made him physically sick.

"Oh hell."

******

John managed to fall into a light slumber for at least part of the night but when he woke it was still dark outside. He took the time until Sherlock stirred next to him to wind himself up in knots with doubts and anger about the events of the night.

To think that he had allowed Sherlock to get that close, to let him manhandle him in such a way when what was supposed to do was be the responsible one, the level-headed one ... it was unforgivable.

Too many nights spent looking after Harry had made John fear and despise the effects of alcohol more than studying medicine had ever done. To see Sherlock, who was always so frighteningly in control of every little thing he said and did, was even worse than having to watch his own sister's already erratic behaviour spiral out of control.

He should have done more, been firmer, unyielding in the face of Sherlock's temporary loss of his mental faculties. He should have dragged him to his bed and left him there, just as he had done when Sherlock had been drugged by Irene Adler.

Instead, he had been weak, helpless against Sherlock's drunken advances as worry and arousal fought a fierce battle for his attention.

Worry had won in the end, but it had been close and John felt a new wave of guilt wash over him as he recalled just how terribly close to giving in he had actually come. Had the taste of alcohol not still lingered on Sherlock's tongue ...

He should be ashamed of himself. And he was.

Of course Sherlock wasn't to blame. The impossible man never once indulged his body in its simple demands for food and sleep, of course he also wouldn't waste time on the physical gratification sex could offer. Not to mention that he viewed most people as beneath his level of intellect and thus outright refused to spend more time in their company than he absolutely had to.

John knew he was an anomaly in that particular equation. Whereas Lestrade and the occasional other Yarder was reluctantly allowed in Sherlock's presence, it was a mere necessity for the sake of the Work. Access to the cases had to come first, of course.

John, on the other hand, did not fall into that category. He was the one person Sherlock actually turned to for the simple sake of companionship, friendship even. It was a privilege John was proud to have and one that he would fight until his last breath to keep.

It was only natural that, if his body ever managed to override Sherlock's supremely rational mind, John would be the one he turned to. Years of trust and their mutual comfort with each other's personal space (a concept that had never really existed between them) would make it all the easier to move their relationship to an entirely new level.

And while Sherlock may be comfortable with one drunken night of sex, John knew he himself wasn't. It was a painful thing to imagine and he instinctively shied away from the thought.

No. If there was no way to have all of Sherlock - gorgeous body _and_ brilliant mind combined - then John was more than happy with the status quo.

It was all the more reason to be furious with himself for letting things get so far out of hand last night. He hadn't been prepared for his flatmate suddenly making a pass at him and as years of longing had rushed to the surface John had been helpless to push him away immediately, as he should have done.

Unable to stay in bed any longer, he eased himself off the mattress, making sure that Sherlock was still fast asleep. The detective had let go of John's arm sometime during the night but he did remain pressed impossibly close and John moved slowly so as not to wake him.

He slipped out into the hall and made his way to the kitchen, intend on spending some of his restless energy on making tea. He was almost tempted to spike the tea with something stronger to settle his nerves but alcohol had already cause enough off a mess for the inhabitants of 221b, even without John adding more of it to the equation. And that wasn't even taking into account his lingering personal fear that if he ever started to drink, he would not be able to stop and fall into the same pit that had already swallowed his father and Harry.

Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, he poured a cup of tea, added copious amounts of milk and settled into his usual chair in the living room with a sigh of relief.

The first sip of hot tea was enough to settle his jittery nerves and make his muscles relax. He wondered how much of that effect came from the tea and how much of it was caused by the simple comfort of something so familiar. Sherlock could probably tell him the statistics or conduct an experiment on the precise effects of making tea versus the ingredients of said tea in one John Watson. Oh, who was he kidding. In all likelihood, Sherlock had already done that experiment years ago.

Speaking of the devil, there were distinct sounds coming from the bathroom. Apparently Sherlock had awoken and the alcoholic beverages he had consumed had decided to come back out the same way they had entered his body.

It probably wasn't very nice of him, but John couldn't help but smirk to himself. Well, the wanker certainly deserved that discomfort after the stunt he had pulled. To randomly enter a pub with the sole objective of getting drunk was certainly not something John had seen him do before. It was probably a stupid experiment of some sort that had gotten quite out of hand, as these things usually did when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

"Back amongst the living then?," John called in the general direction of the bathroom as he got up to prepare a second cup of tea and went looking for the Advil he kept hidden from Sherlock. Hiding anything from the detective was a difficult job in the best of circumstances but John was reasonably sure that not even Sherlock had thought to check the back of the frame of his bat collection.

There was no reply to his enquiry but a few minutes later Sherlock himself entered the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower, looking absolutely miserable. John felt a pang of sympathy but quickly quenched it. This was not the time for sympathy. There was no point in feeling sympathetic towards someone who had brought his current state upon himself by excessive drinking. And Sherlock of all people should not come into close contact with addictive substances.

John did note the timidity to Sherlock's movements, though, as he handed him the freshly prepared tea and watched him gingerly sit at the kitchen table.

The detective took a sip from his cup, then groaned and let his head drop forward onto the table.

John placed the Advil next to him. "Alright?"

There was a garbled sound, followed by a long, drawn-out "Nooooooo".

"Well, we both know who's to blame for that, don't we?," John said.

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed, raising his head to glare at John. "You are."

John felt his jaw drop. "Excuse me? You are the one who went and got smashed. How's that my fault?"

"You didn't stop me."

"You didn't tell me where you were off to!," John protested, incredulous.

Sherlock's glare intensified. "Of course I did, right before I left."

"Well, that's why then," John sighed. "I was at work when you left, you idiot. When I came back, you were already gone."

"I don't see how that is relevant," Sherlock sniffed, hiding his face behind his tea cup as he downed the Advil in a quick gulp.

"Of course not," John grumbled. "So what was the point of getting drunk in the first place? Experiment?"

"Don't remember," his flatmate muttered, suddenly very busy with his tea. "How'd I get home?"

John gaped at him. "You don't remember?"

"No," the detective snapped. "I just said so, didn't I?"

"Right," John muttered, turning to the sink and busying himself with washing out his cup so Sherlock couldn't see his face. His heart sank. He didn't remember. Of course not, it had been stupid to think so. And anyway, that was what he had been hoping for, wasn't it? For Sherlock to not remember what had happened so they could avoid all the morning-after awkwardness? So why was he so disappointed all of a sudden?

"John?"

The soft enquiry tore him from his thoughts. Turning back around, he leaned against the counter. "Yeah, sorry. Uh, the barkeeper took your phone and texted me to come and get you. One of your brother's cars showed up outside the pub to drive us home. I dragged you in, helped you out of your coat and shoes, and put you in bed."

He watched as Sherlock frowned, probably combing his normally flawless memory for any hints of recollection.

"I was only wearing pants when I woke up," he finally pointed out.

"You took off your shirt and trousers while I was putting your shoes away," John explained. It was not a complete lie. "I was frankly quite surprised you managed to open the buttons at all."

Sherlock nodded, an odd expression on his face. Relief, definitely ... but that other emotion... John blinked. Was that disappointment? No, he must be mistaken. It couldn't be.

"Best take things slow today," he advised, wishing he knew what Sherlock was thinking. "Your head could probably need some rest from all the high-speed thinking you usually do and your stomach is upset enough already without you rushing all about town."

Sherlock nodded again, downed the rest of his tea and moved to curl up on the sofa, draping his blue dressing gown around his body and looking to all the world like a swooning Victorian heroine for the rest of the day while John tried not to hover around him.

*****

By early afternoon, things at 221b were almost back to normal.

Sherlock was busy sulking because his hangover prevented him from doing anything productive and John was trying very hard not to feel cruelly misused and disappointed by Sherlock's lack of recollection of what could have been the turning point of their relationship.

He also tried not to be angry about that. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he couldn't remember. Well, actually, it was. If he hadn't been drunk out of his mind, he certainly wouldn't have any trouble remembering. But if he hadn't been drunk, then none of the things that had happened last night would have happened. So now John was angry at Sherlock for failing to react to something that shouldn't have happened in the first place. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn't notice Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbows until the detective spoke. "You're upset."

With a start, John turned around and looked at him. "What?"

"You're upset," Sherlock repeated. He paused, eyes narrowing as he stared at John. "Of course," he murmured, more to himself than to John, before continuing. "I'm sorry. I should have taken your worry over your sister's alcoholism into account before getting drunk myself. It has clearly triggered uncomfortable memories in you."

John stared at him, wondering if he should tell Sherlock that he was once again spectacularly wrong. Except he wasn't, of course. He had simply not picked up on the most important reason for John being upset, though thoughts of Harry certainly figured into his general emotional state right now.

"Yes, you should have," he said tightly. "In fact, you yourself are not someone who should go and get drunk at random, just because you can. Getting you away from the drugs was bad enough from all I heard, I don't need to have to try and keep you away from the bottle, too."

Sherlock had the decency to look chastened. "I am sorry, John. I do know I had a reason for doing it - I'm sure I'll recall it sooner or later."

He cleared his throat. "You do know I'm clean, right?"

"Of course," John assured him. "Of course I know that." ' _I just don't think you could resist if someone offered you something_ '. He didn't say that last part out loud, however.

Luckily, all Sherlock did was nod and drop the subject entirely, turning his attention to his ongoing experiment on the kitchen table (something to do with cheese and dead fish - John hadn't asked). That was probably just as well - he didn't want to start an argument about Sherlock's past drug use, especially not so soon after the events of the past twelve hours.

So instead John opened the newspaper and tried not to think about the sensation of warm lips all over his neck and jaw and a hot tongue invading his mouth.

******

By the time evening rolled around, the tension in 221b Baker Street was almost palpable and both Sherlock and John were about ready to bounce off the walls for different but related reasons.

John had had about as much success in repressing his memories as could be expected. Which was to say: none at all.

No matter what he did to try and occupy his mind, thoughts of Sherlock would inevitably spring up, a fact that was not helped at all by the man in question, who stubbornly insisted on sitting in the middle of the kitchen where he was impossible to miss and attracting John's gaze with every little move he made. Even if it only was adjusting the microscope. The very sight of his large hand was enough to make John's mind jump back to that very same hand roaming his chest. Bit not good indeed.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was getting more and more restless as time progressed and the shadows lengthened. His headache seemed to have disappeared thanks to the Advil John had given him earlier, but all it meant was that the detective spent all day staring at slides under his microscope and getting increasingly anxious as the day went by.

John knew how to detect anxiousness in his flatmate's behaviour by now. It was all in the way he moved, in gestures that got cut off halfway, as if Sherlock had started moving involuntarily and just caught himself before his hands could move in a direction he didn't want them to go. It was the way he picked up random items only to look at them with a puzzled expression as he tried to work out why he had reached for them in the first place. It was also in the way he would run his hand through his hair ever so often.

Of course, that last habit was the one that made John finally snap and excuse himself to go for a short evening stroll in Regent's Park. Anything to escape the tempting sight of those mussed curls. Seriously, how was he supposed to pretend everything was normal when this was what he was constantly being subjected to? It just wasn't fair.

As he roamed the almost deserted park, John could do nothing but admit that the situation had gotten quite out of hand. He had had everything under control - or at least he liked to think he had - for months now. Ever since he had looked at Sherlock as they stumbled into 221b one evening, drenched to the bone thanks to the thunderstorm raging outside, and his eyes had momentarily been glued to Sherlock's very wet white shirt where it stuck to his chest.

He had quickly torn his gaze away then, but the moments had been piling up ever since. Objectively, he had always known that Sherlock was rather far up on the gorgeous scale, but now he had started noticing all the little details. The way his curls would bounce when he made a sudden move, how his clothing drew attention to all the right places on his body. And most importantly that crooked smile of his that only John ever got to see and the sight of which made his stomach do a funny little twist.

Angry with himself and the unfairness of the world, John kicked a twig on his path, watching as it flew into some nearby bushes. The small outburst of violence didn't make him feel any better.

Sighing, he checked his watch and groaned. Brilliant. He had been gone for over an hour now. So much for a short stroll. Sherlock was definitely going to get suspicious now. Usually, the only reason for John needing to take a walk in order to calm down was when Sherlock had done something to make him want to throttle him. Most of the time, that kind of situation involved something in the fridge that did not by any stretch of the imagination actually belong inside a common fridge that was used to store people's food.

There was nothing to it. He had to turn around, go back home, and face the music.

******

As it turned out, John found himself literally facing the music the moment he opened the front door. The sound of Sherlock's violin was impossible to miss, an anxious and frantic melody drifting downstairs, interspersed with mournful sounds that made John's heart clench. One of _those_ moods, then. Bit not good.

He made himself walk up the stairs as naturally as possible, trying his best to pretend that everything was normal. Which of course it wasn't.

The moment he entered the sitting room, Sherlock lowered his violin mid-note and placed it carefully back into its case. John took the time to hang up his jacket and toe off his boots. By the time he was done with that, Sherlock had turned and was studying him in that way he sometimes did, like John was a particularly fascinating fungus he had found under the sink.

For a moment, that inquisitive look was all John registered before he finally took note of the air of defeat surrounding his best friend. Sherlock looked exhausted, as if all his energy had left him while John was out walking.

"What did I do?"

"What?," John stared at him, trying to look casual. "How would I know what you've done, Sherlock? I've been gone for an hour."

The detective rolled his eyes, not the least bit amused. "What did I do last night?"

Uh-oh. John instinctively stood straighter, pulling his shoulders back. "What makes you think you did anything?"

Sherlock actually looked affronted at that. "Oh please. You have been acting strange all day, John. You won't meet my eyes, you've been positively jittery all day and just this morning you were radiating anger."

"I wasn't-" John started, but Sherlock continued talking as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Now what could make you both anxious and angry? Lots of things, naturally, most often related to either me or your sister. You haven't had contact with Harry since that short e-mail exchange last week. Therefore, me. I haven't done anything but mind my experiment all day and you were already behaving that way when I woke. Conclusion: something I did last night that I don't remember, which makes you angry and which you don't want me to know about, hence the jittery behaviour. So let me ask you again. What did I do?"

John sighed. He really should have expected that. He had, actually. But a part of him had still held on to the ridiculous hope that Sherlock might ignore it, pretend that last night hadn't happened and they could just go back to the status quo. So much for that.

He ran a hand across his face. "Look, it doesn't matter. You were clearly not in possession of your senses and I'm not actually angry with you, alright? So can we just... delete it?"

Sherlock glared at him and crossed his arms. "Apparently, I already have. But I want to know what it was. It can't have been anything obvious, such as insulting someone in your presence. I do that all the time and you never bother to get riled up about it. If I got us into a fight, there'd be clear signs of it on both our bodies, so that's a no, as well. Judging from the money missing from my wallet, you didn't pay my tab and nor should you have done. I already apologised for getting drunk in the first place but on second thought that doesn't seem to actually bother you all that much. What did I do?"

John shook his head, resisting the urge to just tell him. He couldn't do that. The moment he spoke the words out loud, their entire relationship (whatever the hell it was) would be irrevocably altered and there was a strong chance - a very strong one - that Sherlock would tell him it didn't mean anything and he was sorry and that was the exact thing John did not want to ever hear him say.

"Just ... forget it, alright?"

He went into the kitchen to brew himself another cup of tea, possibly the sixth or seventh of the day. He had lost count.

"Did I puke on your favourite jumper? If so, I'm not sorry. That thing is a crime against fashion."

"Nope," he said. "And stop insulting my wardrobe. Not everyone can afford to get their clothes tailored."

Sherlock snorted. "I wouldn't call that a wardrobe."

A few moments of silence.

Then: "Did I deduce something about you out loud in public that I shouldn't have?"

"No," John groaned, adding milk to his cup. "You didn't."

A faint rustle of fabric told him that Sherlock was moving closer. "Did I try and buy cocaine?"

"What, in the state you were in?" Now it was John's turn to snort. "You couldn't even sit upright without help."

Sherlock made a noise that was half exasperated, half insulted. He seemed to be standing right behind John, a fact that was not as comforting as it normally was. But then, nothing about this day was normal.

Seeing as he was done preparing his tea and had thus run out of excuses, there really was nothing for it. John had to turn around. He did, mug in hand, and managed to once again forget how fucking tall Sherlock was when he stood right inside his personal space. Which meant that John inevitably found himself staring at the detective's neck or chest instead of his face. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, of course. On the contrary. Which _was_ a bad thing, actually.

He tilted his head back so he could focus on Sherlock's face - _Don't stare at his mouth, John, don't stare at his mouth. Damn!_ \- and take in the scarily intense expression there.

It was obvious from the look on Sherlock's face that John had moved up from "rare fungus under the sink" to "incredibly exciting and creative quadruple murder in a locked room on a ship". It meant there was no way in hell that Sherlock was going to give up and there was nothing, not even a very sudden and very violent explosion nearby, that would distract him from his goal. A goal that happened to be finding out the very thing John really didn't want to tell him. Oh hell.

Stalling for time, John raised his cup to his lips and took a careful sip, making sure to keep his eyes on his friend. "Is this you trying to intimidate me? Because we both know I could have you flat on your back in two seconds."

_'Aaaaand that sounded so much better in my head.'_

Sherlock looked startled for a moment, but then a slow smile spread on his face. "Do we now?," he murmured, leaning ever so slightly closer. Just enough to make John feel a bit crowded and force him to put his mug down on the counter behind him for fear of it breaking or spilling tea everywhere in the not so distant future.

Tea secured, John moved into his Captain John Watson stance, the one that made him appear to loom even if the person facing him was a head taller than he was, as happened to be the case right now. "Oh yes," he confirmed, voice strong and sure. "Because as you will _not_ recall, I am the one who manhandled you all the way from the car, up the stairs, through the flat and into your bed last night." Sherlock glowered at him. "The ability to carry a grown man does not necessarily indicate the ability to throw the same man to the floor."

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock received a demonstration of why it was never a good idea to challenge John Watson when he was feeling stand-offish.

The demonstration consisted of John proving that yes, he was indeed capable of throwing Sherlock onto the floor in two seconds flat. He did, however, make sure that the detective didn't hit his head on the way down.

As a direct result of that attention to detail, John ended up straddling a very surprised consulting detective in their kitchen, cradling his head in his left hand even as his right released its grip on Sherlock's arm.

"John?," Sherlock gasped, once he got back the breath he lost during his sudden change of position.

"Yes?"

"What on earth did I do to you last night?"

John stared down at him, noticing that he was still cradling Sherlock's head, fingers buried in the dark curls, and that the detective made no move to disentangle himself whatsoever. Also, his pulse was a bit too fast, visibly throbbing in his throat, and as he looked down at him, John could see his pupils darken.

"You ... uh... you ... acted very distinctly not like yourself," he stammered.

If he had been hoping that that would satisfy Sherlock, he was sadly mistaken.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "In what way? Was I being polite?"

"You were being ... friendly," John admitted. " _Very_ friendly."

"I am capable of friendliness, John," Sherlock pointed out, sounding annoyingly relaxed and reasonable for someone currently lying on his not very clean kitchen floor whilst being straddled by another man. "I just don't see the point of being nice when I can get what I want without it most of the time."

"Yeah ... not _that_ kind of friendly," John said.

There were several beats of silence as Sherlock processed that. "Oh."

Was he actually blushing? Oh dear lord, _he was_!

Sherlock Holmes, _blushing_!

John felt the sudden urge to laugh. He didn't, of course, but it was a close thing. Because he could count the number of times he had seen Sherlock looking uncomfortable or embarrassed on the fingers of one hand and this was one of them.

And now he was squirming ever so slightly, gaze skittering here and there, taking in the state of their kitchen, the fridge, the ceiling, the underside of the table - anything but John's face.

"Uh ..." He trailed off, clearly not knowing what to say. That had to be a first.

John grinned and patted his arm. "Looks like you're a human being after all, huh? I was starting to worry but it appears at least part of you is just a normal bloke with normal needs. Kinda reassuring, actually."

Sherlock swallowed, looking not the least bit reassured. Instead, he squirmed again, trying to wriggle his way out from underneath John. Which was precisely the wrong thing to do when one had a raging hard-on.

The moment they both discovered that, everything stopped.

John gulped, his pulse jumping up and starting a sudden race that no one had informed him of beforehand. "Uh, Sherlock..."

The detective had closed his eyes in the universal "Oh god please let the ground swallow me now" gesture and was blushing even more deeply now.

"I'm sorry." His voice sounded strained. "I'm trying, I really am, but I can't ..." He broke off, shaking his head.

"Can't what?," John asked, trying to temporarily forget the erection pressing against his thigh, so dangerously close to his own crotch.

"Stop," Sherlock gasped. "I can't stop ... _this_."

He made a gesture that encompassed the both of them and their current situation. "This ... thing. I tried, I really did. But you keep doing ... stuff and be-being you and I don't know how ..."

He was rambling now, stammering his way through a sentence that made just enough sense for John to get the gist of what Sherlock was so desperately trying to apologise for.

"Oh god, John, I can't make it stop, you need to make it stop, you need to _do_ something!"

"Yes," John agreed.

And then he bent down and kissed Sherlock Holmes right on the mouth.

Because he needed to do something and this was the only option.

******

For one second that spanned the length of eternity, Sherlock remained completely and utterly motionless beneath John. The only change to their position on the kitchen floor was the added contact of their mouths pressed together, an action that was to blame squarely on John himself. And god, he had been wanting to do that forever because, well, who wouldn't?

Sherlock's mouth beneath his was soft and firm and warm - and absolutely unresponsive.

The moment that fact sank in, John felt his insides turn cold with fear and disappointment. _'Just his drunkenness speaking then_. _'_

Slowly, desperate to save himself from an undignified scramble, he pulled back, regret settling heavily in the vicinity of his stomach.

Oh god, this was the worst thing that could have happened - well, apart from Sherlock pushing him away immediately and demanding he leave. But surely that was only a matter of time. Give it a few seconds for the full meaning of all this to sink in and Sherlock would surely kick him out, disgusted by the useless sentiment directed at him.

Any half-formed excuses and apologies died on John's lips when Sherlock's eyes snapped open and two trembling - _trembling!_ \- hands rose to grab his head and pull him back down.

There was a desperate sound and a gasp and then John's mouth was forcibly dragged back to Sherlock's, now responsive and more than a little eager in its sudden reciprocation.

All thoughts of apologising and making a run for it were swept clean from his mind as his entire being focused on the precise feel and taste and sound of Sherlock Holmes beneath him. He tasted of toothpaste and the tea John had made for him earlier and beneath that of something impossible to define that tasted like Sherlock's voice sounded - sinful and forbidden and dangerous. Everything John lived for.

John moaned appreciatively and moved his hand from Sherlock's arm to his jaw, tilting his head and deepening the kiss in desperate search of more of that delicious taste. Beneath him, Sherlock groaned and shifted, tilting his hips upwards to demonstrate his opinion on John's actions - rather favourable, as it were. Long fingers raked through his short hair and one hand moved down his back and beneath his jumper, teasing its way back up and taking the material along.

John wasn't sure whether to protest at the prospect of having to break their kiss to remove his jumper all the way, or to be relieved about getting rid of it. Suddenly, there were too many layers between them. There always had been, in fact, layers upon layers, some metaphorical, some real. But not now. Not any more. They were being stripped away in this very moment and he couldn't imagine a better thing to do. Well... apart from the kissing, maybe. And the touching. That was nice. And once they had gotten rid of all these layers, it would only get better.

Caught up in his tangled thoughts, he barely noticed Sherlock dragging his jumper over his head and down his arms before tossing the offending garment away.

"John." His name, spoken in that tone, by that voice, was enough to make him snap back to the here and now and he lowered his head to resume kissing Sherlock, not in the least interested in further conversation that wasn't of the non-verbal kind.

This time, it was the detective's turn to take control of the kiss, his clever tongue invading John's mouth at the smallest provocation and doing incredibly clever things that had John thrusting down, his own erection rubbing against Sherlock's through the barriers of their trousers and pants. They moaned in unison at the sensation, gasping and shuddering as he deliberately repeated the movement.

"Up," Sherlock demanded, tearing his mouth away just long enough to utter the short command.

John grunted, barely remembering to add a higher-pitched noise at the end to indicate a question.

"Bed," the detective murmured against his mouth, his voice low and deep and seductive.

"Oh god _yes_ ," John agreed, sitting up and dragging Sherlock up as well until he was sitting in his lap, hands tangled in his hair and the front of his shirt. "And get that thing off."

*****

It was quite some time later before they were capable of uttering anything that wasn't a name or a guttural moan or any variation of the word "yes". Other, more useful means of communication had been employed to properly confirm that no, Sherlock definitely did not need to be drunk to want to drag John Watson into his bed and keep him there, preferably without any clothes on.

At that point, the detective had proceeded to demonstrate that having John naked in his bed was not the only place he wanted him in and from here on after things had gotten rather messy and far more interesting than Sherlock had originally assumed. Not that he had had enough brainpower left to properly analyse the entire thing. He would have to go back over his mental recordings of the whole procedure at a later time in order to figure out how and why exactly his cognitive function had taken a swan dive the moment John had pressed one seeking finger into him.

He already had his suspicions but a proper experiment required several repetitions to make sure the initial outcome had not merely been an accident. He was already looking forward to conducting a whole row of additional experiments to support the new theories he was beginning to form.

Apropos theories ...

"I remember now," he said.

"Huh?," John murmured, pressing a kiss to his neck and momentarily distracting him. "Remember what?"

"Why I got drunk," Sherlock explained, not even exasperated by having to explain himself. Forming full sentences was still a bit of a struggle.

"Oh," John said. "Well?"

"You had a date last night."

John blinked. "I did?"

"Third one, too. That blonde woman with the hat. Melissa?"

"Michelle," John corrected him, sounding surprised. "I completely forgot about that. Too busy trying to figure out where you had gone and trying not to worry about you. What's that got to do with you getting drunk?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "I suspected you might not come home that night and decided I didn't want to know."

He would have known the moment he next saw John, of course, but at least it would have spared him having to sit around the flat, wondering with every passing moment what John was doing and whether he was going to come home before morning. Drinking himself into oblivion had worked spectacularly well in that regard.

John yawned. "I suppose I should call her and apologise, tell her it's not gonna work out, but she probably got that when I didn't show up."

He sounded supremely unconcerned and Sherlock wanted to ask him about that, wanted to know every little thing John thought, but then warm lips were once more moving up his neck towards his jaw and he decided it wasn't important. Everything that mattered was right here, after all, and though Sherlock had laughably little knowledge about these things, he rather suspected he would never have to get drunk for anything but a case ever again.

*****

**FIN.**


End file.
